


Suddenly I See

by norah



Category: So You Think You Can Dance
Genre: M/M, RPF, RPS - Freeform, Reality TV, sytycd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norah/pseuds/norah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being on the show is a journey, all right. But it's not just about dancing. Travis/Ivan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suddenly I See

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Calathea and Kyuuketsukirui for last-minute beta help! Written for brand_new_name in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge.

**Week One—Ivan.**  


> _Ivan Koumaev &amp; Allison Holker—Salsa_
> 
> _Travis Wall &amp; Martha Nichols—Broadway_

  
Ivan woke up gasping in pain. The tension in his thigh had snapped, agonizingly, into a muscle cramp, and he kneaded it ineffectively and cursed under his breath.

"What the fuck, Ivan, keep it down. Don' wanna know. " Travis mumbled from across the room, mashing his face back down into his pillow.

"No, dude, shut up." Ivan said, trying tentatively to bend his leg out and sucking in a breath at the renewed spasm of pain. "My fucking leg cramped up, and it hurts like fuck."

He could hear Travis groan and the rustling of blankets. His bed sagged as Travis sat down on it. Travis flipped the sheets back unceremoniously, leaving Ivan shivering in just a t-shirt and shorts.

"Hey!"

"Shut up," Travis said. "Calf or thigh?"

"Thigh," Ivan said, gritting his teeth. "Right leg."

Abruptly, he felt Travis's hands warm on his skin, sliding behind his knee and pushing it up.

"Hurts," Ivan gasped.

"I know, but it helps. Breathe through it and get your knee up to your chest." Travis's hair was ridiculous, mashed half-flat with sleep, and his voice still sounded bleary, but his hands were sure as they helped Ivan push his knee up and hold it for a few moments. Ivan could feel a light sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Now put your leg up over my shoulder." Travis adjusted himself so that Ivan's calf could rest easily over his shoulder. Ivan hissed quietly as the cramped muscle protested.

And then jumped as he felt Travis's hands slide up his thigh, under the edge of his boxers.

Travis dug his fingers in, hard, and started to knead the muscle. It hurt like fuck, and Ivan stopped worrying about where Travis's hands were and concentrated on not screaming. "I used to get these all the time," Travis said. "Stretching and massage is pretty much the only thing that will make them go away."

"You don't get them any more?" Ivan strained to make his voice sound normal, but the pain and the weirdly intimate feel of Travis's hands on his skin made it come out a little breathless.

"After the first few times, I started listening to my mom when she told me I needed to stretch out more thoroughly. That's what does it—that and not drinking enough water. Haven't you ever had one before?"

"No." His thigh still hurt, but the pain was starting to ease up a bit under Travis's insistent kneading. Ivan tried not to feel ridiculous, but he was pretty vulnerable with his leg in the air and someone else's hands working high up on his bare thigh. The contemporary dancers were all really touchy-feely, and Ivan was getting used to it, but that was when everybody had their clothes on. This felt different.

Travis was still talking, matter-of-factly. "Yeah, I noticed you weren't stretching as long as some of us. And have you been drinking water?"

Ivan tried to think about it, but he honestly hadn't been paying a lot of attention. "I think so. Probably, like, at least eight glasses a day, isn't that what you're supposed to drink?"

"There's your problem, dude." Travis stopped doing whatever he'd been doing with his fingertips and moved to a deep pressure with the heels of his hands. It hurt, but not like the cramping. "You're dancing fourteen, fifteen hours a day—you probably never did that kind of sustained work before, right?"

"No." Ivan shook his head from side to side, his hair scrubbing against the pillow. "Like, I practiced, but, a few hours a day, maybe?"

Travis worked his way up to Ivan's knee and then lifted Ivan's leg gently and scooted out from under, setting it back down on the bed and resuming the massage with sweeps of his thumbs down the length of Ivan's thigh. It pulled the leg hairs and kind of tickled when he got too close to the knee.

"Yeah," Travis said. He wasn't looking at Ivan, just concentrating on his hands. "It's different. You gotta think, you're an athlete, now, practically. You're pushing your body hard, and you gotta stay hydrated. I try to drink a bottle of water every hour or so."

Ivan knew he hadn't been drinking that much. "Shit, okay. I wasn't thinking about that."

"Yeah, you're probably using new muscles, too, in the new styles." Travis ran his hands once more over Ivan's thigh and gave it a friendly pat. "Better?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Travis was already padding back over to his own bed. Ivan pulled the covers up and pointed his toes experimentally. It was stretchy, but not too bad. He felt weird, wide-awake and buzzing under his skin.

"Travis?"

"Mmmhmm?"

Travis's voice was already sleepy. Ivan could only see a motionless lump on the other bed in the dark.

"Would you help me out with stretching tomorrow? Like, teach me how?"

"Mmmyeah. Night."

"Night."

Ivan stared at the ceiling in the dark until his eyes slid shut.

 

**Week Two—Travis.**  


> _Travis Wall &amp; Martha Nichols—Krump_
> 
> _Ivan Koumaev &amp; Allison Holker—Hip-hop_

  
Li'l C was awesome to work with, totally energetic and on and really kind of encouraging, too. Travis could see what he wanted, and he felt like he and Martha could do it. Maybe.

"Ivan," he said after lunch, "Can you, like, help me out a little?"

"Sure, man, what do you need?"

"You krumped for your audition, right?"

"Yeah. You need pointers?"

"I don't know. I just, he kept talking about 'the buckness' and how krump 'isn't just steps, it comes from within.'"

Ivan giggled. Travis did a pretty good impression of Li'l C.

"And I totally get that, I mean, that's contemporary, too. I'm just not sure that what I've got within me translates so well into whatever 'buckness' is, you know?" Travis rested his forehead on the table and banged it gently against the tabletop.

Ivan laughed. "Dude. All respect to Li'l C, but I know how to krump, right? And I have never heard anyone but him say that."

Travis waved a hand weakly, forehead still resting on the table. The plastic was smooth and cool and he just wanted to sleep for a week. "Yeah, but he, like, _invented_ krump. He can invent a word about it if he wants to, you know?"

Travis felt Ivan's hand on his shoulder—just a clap on the back—but then there was a hesitation, and Ivan rubbed his back a little, left his hand there. Travis took a deep breath. "I'm so fucking tired, Ivan. But I've gotta get this right."

"What were you telling me last week about taking care of your body?"

"I know. I know. Nap after dinner, I swear."

"I might need one, too. You sure you want pointers from someone who ended up in the bottom three on the first week?"

"That wasn't your style, dude; this is. You're the krump-master."

"Krump-master, huh?"

Travis raised his head. "Yeah. Teach me, Ivan-wan."

Ivan grinned. "Look, I'll come watch you for a little while, but then I've got to go work with Allison some more. She's a little freaked out about the hip-hop. But I guess you get that."

"Yeah, of course. You sure she won't mind me stealing you for a few?"

Ivan rubbed Travis's back soothingly. "Of course not, man. Circle of trust, right?" He held up the hand with the yellow bracelet on it, and Travis hauled himself out of the chair and bumped it with his own fist.

"Circle of trust. Thanks, man."

"Come on. Let's see the buckness, and then you can thank me—if you still want to."

Travis grimaced and pushed Ivan's head, lightly. "Way to inspire confidence, dude."

 

**Week Three—Ivan.**   


> _Ivan Koumaev &amp; Allison Holker—Argentine tango_
> 
> _Travis Wall &amp; Martha Nichols—Hip-hop_

  
Ivan was freaking out.

"Dude, relax," Travis said. They were about to go down to hair and makeup.

Ivan felt sick, like he'd had too much Red Bull on an empty stomach or something, which was stupid, because he'd eaten lunch, and they were all off caffeine to help with hydration. "I'm gonna be sick," he said.

"You're gonna be fine, man. You _had_ it last night at rehearsal." Travis gave him a hug, and Ivan held on. He'd gotten used to all the hugging, and he found it comforting now.

"Yeah, I had it with the samba, too," Ivan said. He let go of Travis and sat down on the bed. "I mean, I've gotten better, don't get me wrong, but I was way better in rehearsal for that, too. And I fucking froze the minute the cameras were on me." He stood up and started pacing.

"You're only making it worse, though. Try not to think about it. Try to breathe."

"I _can't,_" Ivan said. He suspected he was whining a little, but he really didn't care.

"You can."

Ivan shook his head.

"Have you tried jerking off?"

Ivan turned around. _"What?"_

Travis was blushing a little, which was good, because if he'd just been standing there all cool and collected, Ivan would really have flipped. "Never mind," he said.

There was an awkward pause.

"Does it help?" Ivan said, finally.

Travis leaned against the dresser and looked at the toes of his sneakers. "Sometimes?" he said. "Like, I used to do it when I was on Broadway, just so I wouldn't like, pop a boner and embarrass myself on stage."

Ivan started laughing, and Travis blushed even harder. "Shut up, dude. I was thirteen, okay?"

"No, no," Ivan waved a hand at him, straightening his face out. "I get it. Sorry."

Travis glared at him, but then his face crumpled into a sheepish smile. "Yeah, it's embarrassing to admit, okay, but given the alternatives, it seemed like the better choice."

"True. But I'm not thirteen, I'm not about to sport wood onstage, dude."

"No, I know. But like, Latin's all about the hips, right?"

"Mostly Allison's, but yeah."

"So I'm saying, if you need to be a little looser, a little more fluid, it could help, is all."

It made sense, but Ivan didn't really know what to say to that. Luckily, he didn't need to, because Travis was turning toward the door, saying, "So, like, time for hair and makeup!" in a cheerful voice. The back of his neck was red.

"Okay," Ivan said, and followed him out.

 

**Week Four—Travis.**  


> _Travis Wall &amp; Martha Nichols—Salsa_
> 
> _Ivan Koumaev &amp; Allison Holker—West coast swing_

  
Travis was not a morning person.

"Wakey, wakey!" Ivan was shaking his shoulder. "Bus leaves in ten minutes!"

Travis burrowed back under the covers. "Mmmph. Not morning."

"Dude." Ivan pulled the duvet back, and Travis curled himself up even tighter, like he could get the warmth back that way, and whined pathetically. Thursday nights they always went to bed later than they should, drawing out the last few hours with the people going home, which made Friday mornings suck more than mornings usually did.

Travis gave up and flopped over on the mattress, then hauled himself up into a sitting position. At least the camera crews weren't in the room today. Ivan was still standing there, and he held out a hand to help Travis up.

Travis grabbed it and hauled himself up and then stumbled dramatically, leaning all his weight on Ivan, who almost fell over. "So...tired..." he moaned. "Can't...stand...up..."

Ivan pushed him off. "Your breath is _nasty_. Hurry up or you'll be late, and I won't tell the driver to wait for you this time, either."

By the time the cameras started rolling, Travis was bright-eyed and spiky-haired again, but it wasn't enough to keep him cheerful through Martha pulling salsa out of the hat.

"Fucking ballroom," he moaned to Ivan later that night. "Sucks."

"Tell me about it," Ivan said sourly. He was collapsed in one of the soft chairs in the lobby, waiting for the dinner buffet to get set out. They weren't even done, was the sad thing. They'd practice for a few more hours after dinner before they went back to the hotel. "At least it's not your _third time_. I'm starting to wonder if me and Allison are ever going to get anything else ever again."

Travis buried his face in his hands and then ran them through his hair, which was starting to look a little wilted. "Whatever, Seabiscuit." He did a little Mary Murphy scream, and Ivan laughed.

"That was tango, though. Swing is totally different. We have this _lift_, oh my God, my arms are killing me."

"Yeah, well. You'll be fine." Travis smirked at him. "You've got my secret weapon now, after all."

He'd just been fishing, but Ivan went immediately bright red, and Travis started to laugh. "You _did_, didn't you!"

"Shut up," Ivan said.

Travis spread his hands. "Hey, whatever works, dude."

"Shut _up_," Ivan said.

But Travis thought about it, later. He was curled in bed, in that tired/wired state that a long day left him in, trying to calm himself down enough to get the sleep he so desperately needed. Ivan was already snoring lightly in the other bed; dude could fall asleep anywhere. Lucky bastard. Travis huffed out a breath and nestled further down into the covers.

When had Ivan done it? He must have snuck away sometime during hair and makeup, maybe to one of the bathroom stalls. An image of Ivan, his long back curved, bracing himself against the tiles, popped into Travis's head, and he squeezed his eyes shut against it. It didn't work.

It was like thinking about elephants. The harder he tried not to think about it, the more he thought about it. He slid a hand down into his boxers and pressed down on his cock. Fuck.

Only a creep would jerk off thinking about his roommate when the guy was asleep in the same room. Travis flopped over on his back and stared at the ceiling.

Someone could have come into the bathroom while Ivan was doing it, too. Backstage was pretty busy before a show, and there were a lot of people coming and going. He would have had to be quick about it, just in case. Maybe he'd already been through wardrobe, and he was in the suit already, so he'd have to worry about keeping it clean, too. Travis thought about Ivan's hand, wrapped around himself and stroking fast, pale against the black fabric of the suit.

He gave in and curled his hand around himself, too. Maybe it made him a creep, but he was _hard_, and he really needed to sleep, and there was no way he was going to be able to until he took care of this. It wouldn't take long; he hadn't had time to jerk off in days, and he felt suddenly desperate for it. He bent one knee slightly so that the sheets didn't rustle every time he moved, and started to stroke.

Ivan would have had to be quiet, too. Travis imagined Ivan's teeth biting into his bottom lip, forehead furrowed up in concentration, and he bit his own lip and sped his hand up. If he'd walked into the bathroom, would he have been able to tell what Ivan was doing?

Maybe he had. Maybe he'd been right there, pissing, while Ivan had been beating off in the next stall. Maybe Ivan had been so close when Travis walked in that he couldn't stop, that he had to keep touching himself. Maybe Travis had turned on the tap to wash his hands and masked the little sound Ivan made as he'd come, muffling himself with his sleeve.

Travis thought about Ivan, heavy-lidded and loose-limbed, coming out of the stall with the flush fading from his cheeks and his lower lip bitten raw.

And he came, cock jerking in his boxers as he bit his lip hard to muffle a gasp.

He listened intently, breathing evening out as he came down, but there was no sound from Ivan's side of the room. Travis wiped his hand on the sheet as far away from himself as he could, and made a face at the mess in his shorts.

This was so fucked up.

 

**Week Five—Ivan.**  


> _Ivan Koumaev &amp; Allison Holker—Contemporary_
> 
> _Travis Wall &amp; Martha Nichols—Foxtrot_

  
Ivan went upstairs as soon as they got to the hotel. He'd been feeling off since they got on the bus, and when everyone else decided that they weren't ready to crash yet and they were going to go play Pictionary in Benji and Dmitry's room, he waved them off.

"Yeah, just tired," he said, when Travis asked if he was okay. In the room, he kicked off his shoes and flopped facedown on the bed, but he didn't get under the covers.

There was a soft knock on the door.

"Yeah?" Ivan said.

Travis called through, "It's me. You decent?"

"Yeah," Ivan said. He rolled over, keeping one arm slung over his face. Travis came over and sat next to him.

"You sure you're okay?"

Ivan put his arm down and stared dully at the ceiling.

Travis looked at him skeptically. "Uh-huh."

"I am." Ivan sighed and stared at the ceiling. "It's just, my dad, you know?"

"I thought that was good, like, I thought he was really proud of you?" Travis remembered Ivan's brilliant smile when he'd gotten off the phone.

"No, it was. It was." Ivan's voice cracked, and he put his arm up over his face again and took deep breaths. He didn't want to cry in front of Travis, because that would be dumb. He'd been really happy about the phone call, and it was stupid to be getting all weird about it now.

Travis rubbed a soothing hand over Ivan's leg. There was a long pause.

"Whatever," Ivan said. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "It's just, it took me getting on TV for him to say that. He never cared about my dancing before."

"Does he call you often?"

Ivan shrugged. "I guess. But he never liked me dancing much, and when he left he never really wanted to talk about it. Then when I came out he wasn't happy about that, either. He calls on my birthday and holidays and stuff, but we don't have a lot to say to each other."

"You like guys?" Travis blurted, and then he seemed to realize that that was not the important part of what Ivan was saying. "Never mind, I mean, I'm sorry about your dad."

Ivan looked at him. "What, hip-hop dancers can't be gay?" He felt defensive and weirdly nervous. He hadn't actually said it to that many people, and even though he knew Travis would be fine with it, really, his adrenalin was kicking into high gear and his heart was thumping loudly.

Travis held up his hands in apology. "Sorry, dude, I was just startled, I mean, I didn't know. It's cool." He picked at a frayed spot on his jeans. "Hello, contemporary dancer, here. And it's not like my dad was super thrilled about it either, but I guess he's okay about it now." Travis had been out since day one, but this was the first time he'd really talked about his dad.

Ivan nodded. "My dad's kind of really traditional Russian Orthodox. He always thought the dancing was kind of a waste of time. And the rest, well, that _really_ didn't go over well."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. But, it's good, right, that he's proud of me now?" Ivan snuffled a little in spite of himself, and he blinked and scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes again.

Travis pushed him over and lay down next to him. He was warm, and he reached down to the end of the bed, where Ivan had left the comforter and sheets scrunched up that morning, and hauled them up over them both. "Yeah, maybe he's starting to understand it better, now he's seeing what you can do."

Ivan felt better, cocooned in the blankets with Travis's arm around him. He would have felt weird just cuddling like this a few weeks ago, but at this point, he was almost as touchy-feely as the contemporary dancers. Anyway, it was _Travis_, and mostly it just felt warm and comfortable and good. "Sure, he gets it now that I'm dancing _ballroom_, with _girls_, like a proper gentleman. It's just frustrating, you know?

"Mhmmm," Travis said into his shoulderblade. His breath was making a damp spot on Ivan's shirt.

It was dark in the room. Ivan adjusted his head so a more comfortable position on the pillow, and breathed out. "Stay a while?" he said, quietly.

"Mmm," Travis said. He didn't move.

Ivan was exhausted. Ballroom had been scary technically, but contemporary was a whole new level of difficult. He got out of the studio every day feeling, well, turned inside out. That's probably why the whole thing with his dad was bothering him so much, but he couldn't help it. You dug down into all that emotional stuff and you couldn't really pick and choose what came up. It left him feeling raw and exposed and just—_tired_.

It was good to lie in the dark and the warm and breathe. Behind him, Travis let out a little snore, and Ivan smiled as his eyes slid shut.

He woke up stifling. It was still dark outside, and Travis was giving off heat like a furnace. Ivan was sweating, and he scrabbled at the comforter to push it down a little. Travis whimpered in his sleep and moved closer; they'd gotten all tangled up, limbs and blankets and all. Ivan started to try to ease away without waking Travis up, but Travis whimpered and pushed close again.

Travis was hard, Ivan realized, and he was rubbing up against Ivan's hip.

Ivan was suddenly very much awake. And hard, achingly hard. He felt lightheaded and overheated and confused as hell.

Travis was still moving against him, just little nudges of his hips, and Ivan gritted his teeth against the impulse to push back. That would be kind of hard to explain if Travis woke up. "You started it! Um, in your sleep..." Yeah, no. Ivan eased himself out from under the cover, replacing Travis's arms around a pillow. He held his breath. Travis made a discontented noise and rolled over, still asleep, clutching the pillow.

Ivan went to the bathroom and jerked off to the sense memory of Travis's hips nudging hot against his. Then he stripped off his jeans and fell into Travis's bed.

This was so fucked up.

 

**Week Six—Travis.**  


> _Ivan Koumaev &amp; Martha Nichols—Hip-hop and smooth waltz_
> 
> _Travis Wall &amp; Heidi Groskreutz—Paso doble and contemporary_

  
"Aiyyyyyyyaaaah!" Travis let out a war cry before tackling Ivan. He got him by surprise, and Ivan stumbled to his knees with Travis hanging on to his waist. "Partner stealer!" Travis yelled, climbing up to sit on Ivan and tickling him mercilessly.

Ivan batted at his hands. "She's mine now! You can't have her!" He was laughing and wriggling, trying to unseat Travis, and Travis thought for a second he was going to lose this one, because Ivan had about eight inches and twenty pounds on him and he was fighting back with all of it.

But Travis had four brothers at home. He dug his fingers in below Ivan's ribs and when Ivan convulsed, grabbed his wrists and pinned them.

"Dude, you can have Martha back if you'll take the smooth waltz with her," Ivan panted, ignoring Martha's outraged "Hey!" from across the room.

"You can keep her if you'll take the paso doble," Travis countered.

"No deal," Ivan said.

Martha stomped over and loomed over them, hands on her hips. "I'm going to ditch _both_ of you jerks, and me and Heidi are going to rock the ballroom _all by ourselves_," she threatened. Martha could be scary when she loomed.

"Yeah!" Heidi yelled from the couch. "We don't need you!"

Travis twisted around, still holding on to Ivan's wrists. "I don't think you can do that." He turned back to Ivan. "Can they do that?"

"Better not risk it, dude."

Travis let go of his wrists and got up, extending a hand so Ivan could pull himself up, too.

"That's right," Martha said. "As long as we're clear on who's boss."

"You are, of course, my dear," Ivan said, bowing extravagantly and taking her hand, peppering smacking kisses up her arm. "I live but to serve you."

Martha nodded. "I hear you shine shoes," she said.

Travis cracked up, and Ivan poked him. "Shut up. I didn't know what to say, okay? At least I didn't cry on network TV." He twisted up his face. "And I'd like to thank my mom, and the Academy, and..."

Travis tackled him again. Martha got out of the way of the thrashing limbs and made a prudent retreat to the couch.

Travis tickled Ivan into a quivering mess, using all his dirtiest tricks. Ivan deserved it. "Say uncle!" Travis demanded.

Across the room, he heard Heidi say,"_Boys,_" her tone dripping with exasperation.

"Yeah," Martha agreed.

"Uncle!" Ivan gasped. "Mercy!"

Travis grinned.

 

**Week Seven—Ivan.**  


> _Travis Wall &amp; Donyelle Jones—Hip-hop and quickstep_
> 
> _Ivan Koumaev &amp; Allison Holker—Argentine tango and hip-hop_

  
"Tango _again_, what the fuck," Ivan said.

"At least you have hip-hop. And you have Allison back." They were waiting to go down to the bus for dress rehearsal, and Travis was fixing his hair in the closet mirror.

"Yeah, how is it dancing with Donyelle?" Donyelle was a good friend, but good friends didn't always make good partners.

"I miss Martha," Travis said, sighing and sitting down on Ivan's bed. "I mean, Donyelle's awesome, but I can't believe they sent Martha home." He looked embarrassed. "And Donyelle's a lot harder to do the lifts with."

Ivan snorted, and Travis smacked him on the leg. "Shut up. Quickstep is _hard_, okay?"

"I know, dude. I'm just glad it's not me." Ivan was relieved that this week's ballroom routine was something he'd done before, and not, like, the Afro-Cuban lindy hop or something else fucked-up.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

Dress rehearsal went okay; it was nice to be dancing with Allison again, and the tango felt almost comfortable this time around. He felt like they were going to be all right; not _safe_, necessarily, because everyone else was really, really good, and the competition was getting tight. But not bad.

He wasn't about to get overconfident, though. The next night, while Allison was still getting her makeup on (it took _way_ longer for the girls, which made for a lot of agonized waiting around pre-show if you were a guy), Ivan snuck off to the bathroom near the studio rooms to jerk off. It really did help, and he wasn't about to give up something that gave him an edge just because it was embarrassing.

He was half-hard already from the adrenalin of anticipation, and he'd just wrapped his hand around himself and started to get into it when he heard the door open and somebody came in. Ivan froze.

"Ivan?" Travis sounded unsure.

"Yeah," Ivan said, tucking himself away hastily and zipping up. "What's up?" He popped the lock on the stall and went quickly to the sink, washing his hands and hoping the counter would hide his erection.

Travis was in his outfit already, an ugly sweatshirt with hideous baggy jeans, and he looked nervous. Ivan looked at him in the reflection and saw Travis's eyes flick down to look at his fly.

Travis stammered out, "Oh, fuck. Sorry."

Ivan looked down at his hands, washing them more thoroughly than he needed to. It was clear Travis knew what he'd been doing, and he wasn't sure what to say. But his eyes snapped back up when he felt Travis step up behind him. Travis held his gaze, eyes steady over Ivan's shoulder. Ivan couldn't see his mouth, but he felt the heat of Travis's breath as he muttered, "I could help. If you wanted."

There was a frozen instant in which Ivan totally failed to process what Travis was offering, and another when it hit him. His erection, which had been going away, roared back full-force. He stared dumbly at Travis's reflection.

Travis stared back.

After a few seconds, when Ivan still hadn't said anything, Travis dropped his eyes and breathed out heavily. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I just thought—never mind." He started to back away.

"Wait," Ivan said, and Travis stopped. "You don't have to," he said, and he could see himself blushing in the mirror. What the fuck was he _doing_?

"I know," Travis said, and he came back, pressing himself tight along Ivan's back and reaching around to pop just the first button on Ivan's jeans. He looked over Ivan's shoulder and said, "Okay?" He looked calm, but Ivan could feel his hands shaking against the thin t-shirt.

Ivan nodded, blood ringing in his ears, and Travis slid his zipper down and pulled his cock out of his boxer shorts. It should have looked ridiculous, Travis half-hidden behind him, Ivan's cock poking pale out of the plaid cotton. But it didn't. Ivan looked down, at Travis's long, square fingers wrapped around him, and his cock jerked at the sight. He could hear Travis spit, and then he switched hands and his other hand was wet and warm and sure and Ivan let out an involuntary gasp.

Travis bit his shoulder, and ground against him from behind, pushing Ivan's thighs into the edge of the countertop. Ivan braced himself on the counter and stared at their reflection.

It was obscene, really. Travis was staring back at him, watching his face, and he had his mouth open, panting wet against Ivan's shoulder. He was jacking Ivan tight and fast, no finesse, just wet skin and friction and it was so good Ivan had to bite his lip to keep from moaning.

This was stupid. This was so stupid, they were right by the sinks, where anyone who came in could see them, and Ivan knew they should stop. He knew they shouldn't be doing this anyway, that this could fuck them up, and he wrenched his gaze away from Travis's and tried to work up the willpower to say something.

"Fuck, look at you," Travis said, and his voice was rough and lower than Ivan had ever heard it. Ivan looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw himself panting, his jeans slipping down and his boxers hanging low and Travis's hand on his dick. He could see the door behind Travis, the door that had no lock on it, and he never would have guessed that he had a thing for public sex, but that got him so close so fast he could barely look back at Travis, meet his eyes and gasp, "Fuck," before he was coming.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a mess all over Travis's hand, and on the counter, but Ivan didn't even bother to tuck himself back in before he turned around and grabbed Travis's head in both his hands and kissed him, deep and hungry.

Travis kissed back for a second, but when Ivan went to feel for his fly, unzip him and return the favor, he broke the kiss and backed up.

Ivan tried not to look hurt, but he must have failed, because Travis sort of laughed and held up his hands, keeping the messy one as far away from himself as he could. "Wardrobe will _kill_ me, dude. They sent me to tell you it's your turn."

It was not cool to be late for wardrobe. Ivan rubbed his hands over his face. "Shit." He looked back at Travis, who was visibly hard, his pupils still blown.

"You can say I had trouble finding you." Travis said. "But you need to hurry."

Ivan fumbled at his fly, tucking himself back in and zipping up. "Fuck."

"Maybe later, man," Travis said. "You owe me."

Ivan hit the door and looked back. Travis was at the sink wiping up with a paper towel. He smiled at Ivan in the mirror, a lopsided quirk of his lips.

Ivan felt like he should say something, but nothing seemed appropriate. "Later," he said, giving a stupid little wave.

"Later." Travis winked. "Knock 'em dead, Seabiscuit."

Ivan flipped him off and let the door swing shut behind him.

 

**Week Eight—Travis.**  


> _Ivan Koumaev &amp; Natalie Fotopoulos — Jive and contemporary_
> 
> _Travis Wall &amp; Heidi Groskreutz—Smooth waltz and Afro-pop_

  
"I can already tell I'm _really_ gonna miss Allison."

It was Saturday night, and they'd just gotten back to the room after rehearsal. The competition was getting heavier—two couple dances, the group dance, and a solo to practice, and it was taking its toll. Donyelle had a broken toe from the week before, and they all had bruises and blisters; nobody had the energy to hang out when they got back to the hotel at night.

Travis felt so exhausted he just wanted to lie there and sleep for a week, but it was the first moment they'd had alone all day, and instead he'd found himself crawling on top of Ivan as soon as they got in the door. Now they were half-dressed and sticky, and the exhaustion was starting to set back in.

"That bad, huh?"

Ivan sighed. "You know how the judges are always going on about chemistry, and me and Natalie? We are _not_ meshing."

"'M sorry." Travis was fighting to keep his eyes open.

"It's okay. I mean, I figure I'm gone this week whether me and Natalie have chemistry or not, so it probably doesn't matter."

Travis sat up. "You don't know that. The judges totally hated on me last week, and they totally loved you. _I_ was in the bottom four, not you."

"Yeah, well. We know it's not going to be Benji."

"Not unless he, like, drops Donyelle or something."

Ivan snickered. "Either way, it's one of us. And I've got a feeling."

"I think you're full of shit."

Ivan rolled over and pushed up onto one elbow. "It would suck without you, anyway."

"Whatever," Travis said. He shoved his pants the rest of the way off and used his t-shirt to mop up the mess they'd made. "You'll be fine."

Ivan sighed and kicked his pants off, too. "At least there's the tour."

"Don't worry so much about it, dude. With the finale, it's really only one week. Whoever makes it will be so busy it will feel like nothing, anyway." Travis yawned and lay back down.

"And it's not like we won't be living together after that, too."

Travis turned to look at him. They'd made plans to get an apartment together in the first few weeks, when it was still anyone's game, when they were still only two friends of many. But they hadn't talked about it since they'd come back after the last show and Ivan had pinned Travis against their bedroom door and gone down on him with a sloppy enthusiasm, and then hauled him onto the bed for round two.

"You still want to?"

"Duh," Ivan said, sleepily.

Travis grinned and leaned over to kiss him. "Good." The kiss turned serious for a moment, but then Travis couldn't help but yawn, and Ivan started laughing and pushed him away, curling up behind him and yanking up the covers.

"Night," Travis said.

"Night," Ivan said, and then he yawned too. "Fucker. You gave me your yawn."

"Mmmph," Travis said, and flailed his hand out from under the covers to turn off the light.


End file.
